I had no idea how Mother would know that, seeing as we’ve certainly never had anyone in the family having been incarcerated. Except Rafe, of course. Two years in medium security at Riverbend Penitentiary. Where they do indeed have visiting hours. I had visited Walker Lamont there once, at his request. That had been after the first time he’d tried to kill me, but before the second. He’d apologized. I didn’t think he’d apologize again if I went back.
“She’s in Southern Belle Hell,” I said thoughtfully. “At least I think she is. I could call and make sure. And ask if she can have visitors.”
Mother and Audrey both looked at me with arched eyebrows.
“The Tennessee Women’s Prison,” I clarified. “They call it Southern Belle Hell. It’s located somewhere in Nashville.”
I’d never been there. But I thought it likely that it was in the same area as Riverbend. Group your criminals together and make the other areas of town safer for everyone else.
“If anyone in Sweetwater would remember a young pregnant woman from thirty-five years ago,” Mother said, “I think it would be Denise Seaver.”
I forked up some gnocchi and mushrooms while I thought about it. “I should call Darcy and ask if she’s up for a trip to prison tomorrow.” And make sure she was safe at the same time. Just in case. “But first I guess I should find out whether they’re open for visitors.”
“After dinner,” Mother said firmly.
I resisted the urge to salute, and devoted myself to my food.
By the time we got home, it was dark, and Alexandra hadn’t called me. Nor had Rafe, or for that matter Darcy. I couldn’t call Rafe, who was surrounded by other men and no doubt having a great time while they were waiting for their missing gang member to stop by and start shooting. He’d call me when he was ready. And I didn’t want Alexandra to feel like I was nagging her. She’d call when she was ready, too.
But Darcy I could call. So I did.
It took a couple of rings, and then she answered. “Hello?”
“It’s Savannah,” I said. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.” I could hear rustling noises, as if she’d been lying down. She hadn’t been asleep, though. The TV was on in the background, and now she muted it. “What’s up?”
“I wondered whether you were up for another trip tomorrow.”
She sounded a little suspicious. Probably wanted to ensure she wouldn’t have another experience like today. “Where?”
“Back to Nashville. To prison.”
“Prison?”
“I was having dinner with my mother and Audrey,” I said, “and they suggested that we talk to Denise Seaver. She was an OB-GYN in Columbia for many years, until—”
“I remember,” Darcy said. “I heard the story last fall.”
“Then you know that she helped to facilitate many of the illegal adoptions at St. Jerome’s. But she was also, legitimately, a doctor here in Maury County, and Mother thought that if anyone would remember Ora Sweet—or whatever her name really was—Denise Seaver would.”
“And we have to go to prison to talk to her?”
“You don’t have to,” I told her. “I can go on my own. I just thought maybe you’d like to come. Just in case there’s something you’d like to ask her.”
She hesitated, and I added, “She might not want to talk to me. I’m the reason she’s in prison, after all. I could get there, and have her refuse to see me. But she might be willing to talk to you.”
“I don’t know...” Darcy said.
“I checked their visiting hours. They’re open for visitors from eight-thirty to three-thirty tomorrow.”
“I suppose it might be worth a try...”
It was definitely worth a try. Mother was right: if anyone remembered anything, it would be Denise Seaver. We just had to find out if she could be persuaded to talk.
“If you’d like to think about it before you tell me one way or the other,” I told Darcy, “you can get back to me later. Or tomorrow morning. The checkpoint closes at ten and opens again at eleven-thirty, and then closes again between one-thirty and two-thirty. We’d have to get there at a time when it’s open. I was thinking of getting there by ten, just to get the visit out of the way,” and because I was curious and didn’t think I could wait any longer than I had to. “But I could be talked into making it later, if you didn’t want to leave that early. It’ll take us more than an hour to get there.”
“No,” Darcy said. “Let’s go early.”
Sounded like her mind was made up, then.
“I can pick you up again,” I suggested. “We’ll get there before ten. It’s just on the other side of Nashville.”
Darcy allowed how that would work.
“Any problems on your end?”
“What kind of problems?”
“Just making sure you’re all right,” I said soothingly. “I don’t think anyone followed us from Nashville, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful.”
I’m fairly certain I heard a faint gulp.
“If you get worried,” I told her, “you could always call the Columbia PD and ask someone to drive by.” Someone like Patrick Nolan. “Just to make sure you’re safe.”
“Yes,” Darcy said, sounding like she was catching on, “maybe I could do that.”
“Good luck with it. I’ll see you at eight-thirty tomorrow.”
I disconnected, so she could call the Columbia PD and ask for Nolan if she wanted to. And then I leaned back against the pillows—I was in my room, on the bed—and thought about the last time I’d seen Denise Seaver.
She had been standing in her kitchen with a gun in her hand. Marley had been out cold on the floor, from being hit with a frying pan—or maybe it was a wok—and Doctor Seaver had been ready to shoot her. That’s when I had stumbled in, and she had ended up shooting me instead, when I doused her with pepper spray. I still had the scar, small and round and a little sunken under my fingers.
What if she refused to talk to us? She had no reason to want to help me with anything. I was responsible for putting her in prison, for a couple of counts of murder, a couple more counts of attempted murder, and a long string of adoption offenses, not to mention kidnapping. And it wasn’t like talking to me would help her in any way. If I could promise her a couple years off for good behavior, that would be different, but I couldn’t. She was going to die in prison, unless she lived to be well over a hundred.
Maybe we should bring her a gift. She wasn’t likely to have a vase in her cell, so flowers were out, but maybe a nice box of chocolates?
But no, she was in prison. She probably wasn’t allowed to have chocolate. Surely that must be part of her punishment.
We’d just have to throw ourselves on her mercy, then, and hope for the best. And even if she wasn’t willing to tell us anything, maybe she’d let something slip, that would be worth going on with.
At that point, the phone rang. I rolled over and grabbed it. I was hoping for Rafe, but it was Alexandra.
“Sorry,” she told me. “I had to have dinner with my dad and my brother.”
“No problem. I just came in from having dinner with my mother and her best friend.”
“What did you eat?”
“Gnocchi,” I said.
“I had chicken.”
There was a moment’s pause.
“I don’t know what to do,” Alexandra said.
The small-talk portion of the conversation was clearly over.
“You have some time to figure it out.” She hadn’t looked at all pregnant when I saw her, and surely she would have noticed that she wasn’t getting her period if it went on for months and months. “How far along are you?”
“Seven weeks,” Alexandra said. And amended it to, “More or less.”
That made sense. Seven weeks is long enough to realize you aren’t getting your period as regularly as you should, but not so long that you look like an idiot for not realizing it sooner.
“Did you tell your dad?”
&nbs
p; “No,” Alexandra said. “With Austin sitting right there? I don’t think so.”
No, I wouldn’t have wanted to have that conversation with Dix sitting across the table, either. Although back in the fall, when I was pregnant with Rafe’s baby, Dix was the first person I’d told. I guess it’s different when you’re an adult, and I knew Dix wasn’t likely to judge me. Mother hadn’t known about the pregnancy until I miscarried. Nor had Rafe, for that matter.
“What can I do to help you?”
“Right now I just want to talk,” Alexandra said. “I’ll call the doctor on Monday.”
And he would present the options for going forward. So no need for me to do that again.
“Shoot,” I said.
There was a moment’s pause. “I don’t know where to start.”
I remembered that feeling. It was part of the reason I had never broached the subject with Rafe. The other part was that I had no idea how he’d take the news. This was before I knew he loved me, and wanted to marry me. Back then, I hadn’t been sure whether he’d cared about me at all, or whether I’d been nothing but an amusing diversion, and once he’d gotten Savannah Martin into bed and out of his system, he was ready to move on.
“Let me help you out,” I said. “The father... is he your boyfriend?”
She hesitated. “Not really.”
“A friend? Someone you go to school with?”
“I go to a girl’s school,” Alexandra said. “There are no boys there.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” Alexandra said. “And he’s just a guy. We kind of hit it off. And then when we got back to Nashville, we met again. A couple days later. And then we ended up in bed. And now I’m pregnant.”
Admirably simple and clear. “Back from where?”
Between you and me, I had a bad feeling about this. Eight weeks ago had been the weekend of my wedding. A wedding Alexandra had attended. Here in Sweetwater. She’d gotten pregnant a week or so later. To a guy from Nashville, whom she had met somewhere else.
I didn’t want to think that she’d gotten knocked up by someone I had put in her path, but it didn’t come as a surprise to hear her answer.
“Back from your wedding.”
My wedding. There had only been so many single men at my wedding. Most of the guests had been from Sweetwater, except for the ones we had brought down from Nashville with us. Like Grimaldi, and David, and Wendell. And the TBI rookies.
José had brought a girlfriend, so it wasn’t likely to be him. That left Clayton or Jamal.
Neither of them would make Steven Puckett happy. Jamal was black. And Clayton had a criminal record. Like Rafe, the TBI had taken him on straight out of prison.
They were both gainfully employed now. Clayton and Jamal, I mean, although of course Rafe was, too. Engaged in keeping the rest of us safe. That had to count for something. But maybe not with a father whose seventeen-year-old daughter had been knocked up by the man in question.
Maurice Washington, last year’s boyfriend, had been black.
“Jamal?” I ventured.
Alexandra didn’t answer, but I could hear her squirm. And yes, I know that’s impossible. But I swear to God I did.
“Your father isn’t going to be happy about that.”
“My dad wouldn’t be happy about me sleeping with anyone,” Alexandra said, with some justification.
“I’m not real happy about it, either. I realize you’re just a kid, but he should have known better.”
“He thought I was older,” Alexandra said.
And in a court of law, that might help. She did, in fact, look older than seventeen. But with a baby on the way, Alexandra’s age or Jamal’s knowledge of it had nothing to do with anything. She was just as pregnant whether he’d known her real age or not.
“I have to talk to Rafe about this,” I said, more to myself than to her.
“God,” Alexandra moaned.
“No, listen. I have to. They’re neck-deep in an undercover investigation right now. People are dead.” And Rafe had some very important matters to take care of. But I had to make sure he understood that he had to keep Jamal alive to deal with this.
Not that he wouldn’t do whatever it took to keep Jamal alive otherwise too, but now it was even more important.
Rafe could take care of himself. He’d had a lot of practice. But Jamal, for all his bravura, was really just an overgrown kid. And he needed to be kept alive so Alexandra could tell him that he was on his way to becoming a daddy.
Thirteen
I knew Rafe wouldn’t be happy to hear from me, but it couldn’t be helped. As soon as I got off the phone with Alexandra, I dialed his number. And waited.
There was no answer. Part of me had expected that, so I wasn’t upset, although I will admit I was disappointed. I still got to hear his voice, but the recording on the phone wasn’t the same as when he actually spoke to me. “This is Rafe. Leave a message.”
“It’s me,” I said. “Listen. I have something to tell you, and I know now’s not the time, but I need you to do me a favor. I need you to make sure Jamal makes it through the night OK. I’m sure you’d do that anyway, but just make sure of it. And call me when you can.”
There wasn’t anything more to say, really—not without going into details, and I wasn’t about to tell him about my plans for tomorrow—so I told him I loved him, and then I hung up and went to sleep.
When Hot Stuff went off on the bedside table, it was pitch black outside. I rolled over in bed—or tried; I could only make it halfway before the stomach got in the way—and grabbed for the phone. “Rafe.”
“You’ve got some ‘splaining to do,” my husband informed me, in his best Ricky Ricardo voice.
I was too tired to catch on. “What do you mean? Why?”
“Make sure Jamal makes it through the night? What about me? You got something you wanna tell me, darlin’?”
“Oh,” I said. “No. Of course I want you to make it through the night, too. But I really wasn’t worried about that. You can take care of yourself.”
“Uh-huh.” His voice was just about as dry as kindling. “What’s going on, darlin’?”
The ‘darlin’ told me he wasn’t really upset. When something important is going on, he calls me by my given name. The rest of the time it’s darlin’. It can be snide or sarcastic, exasperated or tender, but it isn’t particularly heartfelt. When he has something... for lack of a better word, real to say, he calls me Savannah.
“Alexandra Puckett is pregnant,” I said.
“Yeah?” It took less than a second for him to move from the fact to the reason I mentioned it. If it had been during the day, it probably would have taken less. “Oh, for Christ’s sake!”
“Is he there?”
“No,” Rafe said.
My heart gave a single, heavy beat. “Do you know where he is?”
“No.” His voice was grim.
“Have you tried calling him? Or didn’t he answer?”
“I called. He didn’t answer.”
“Have you gone out looking for him?”
“A couple hours ago,” Rafe said. “Wendell and José went to his house. They’re back now.”
So he hadn’t been home. I wasn’t sure whether that was good news, or bad. On the one hand, they hadn’t found him shot to death on the floor. On the other, he could be anywhere, in God only knew what straits.
“I’m sure he’ll turn up,” I said, in the most chipper tone I could muster. “He’s probably just lying low.”
“Sure.” Rafe sounded about as untroubled as I felt. Not at all, in other words. “Go back to sleep, darlin’. I’ll call you if I see him.”
“I’d appreciate that. I love you. Take care of yourself.”
“You, too. And take care of my baby.”
I promised I would, and went back to sleep.
He didn’t call again. Not during the rest of the night, and not in the morning. I got up, showered and put on clothes, and hea
ded out to pick up Darcy.
She was wearing peach today, with a skirt and strappy sandals. Sunday church wear doubling as prison-visitation wear, I guess.
“Any problems last night?” I asked when she was in the car and we were headed north.
She shook her head.
“Did you end up calling Nolan?”
“There was nothing to call about. Nobody bothered me. And if I called and there wasn’t anything wrong, I’d look like one of those batty old women who believe aliens are listening to their phone conversations.”
Not the best way to impress a guy you liked, who seemed like he liked her back. I could see that.
“He’ll get back in touch,” I said, since I’d definitely gotten the impression that Nolan was as smitten with Darcy as she seemed to be with him. “If he hasn’t come looking for you by tomorrow night, I’ll track down Lupe Vasquez and ask her why.”
“Why tomorrow?”
“Because he knows where you work,” I said. “You must have told him you work for my brother and Jonathan. But you probably didn’t tell him where you live. So it’s most logical that he’ll come looking for you at the office. You just have to give him a little more time.”
Darcy looked cautiously optimistic. “That makes sense.”
It did. I left her thinking happy thoughts about Patrick Nolan showing up tomorrow to sweep her off her feet, and concentrated on driving.
Traffic was light on a Sunday morning, and we made good time from Columbia to Southern Belle Hell.
The Tennessee Women’s Prison is located on the west side of Nashville, near the Ashland City Highway, and across from the Southern Services garbage dump: a great big mound of trash with several tractors driving around on top of it. The temperature had been in the nineties for several weeks, basically cooking the garbage in the dump, and even with the air conditioning blasting inside the car, there was no escaping the odor. Darcy’s nose wrinkled.
“Just be glad you don’t live here,” I told her, pointing out the other window, where several squat brick buildings sat surrounded by tall wire fences topped with barbs. The fences curved inward at the top, so they were impossible to climb. By the time you got to the top, you’d be hanging on by your fingernails, quite literally, and gravity would do the rest.
Uncertain Terms (Savannah Martin Mysteries Book 12) Page 15
